The Adventures of Rick and– Jerry? Wait, what? Are you sure–
by GreekyGirl
Summary: AU in which after the events of 3x1, Jerry goes out trying to Not Be Unemployed. When his job search crashes and burns, he asks Rick to help him. Rick takes the opportunity to stick Jerry on a middle-of-nowhere asteroid where he works as a Flim Flam delivery boy. The worst part, Jerry has decided, is that even being in the galaxy's backwoods, just can't get away from Rick...
1. Jerry, Get a Job!

A/N:

Takes place after 3x1.

So I guess this is not technically an AU yet, but as soon as 3x2 is released (2000 years from now) this will be about as far from canon as you can get.  
I mean, I'm sort of considering maybe making this... a Jerry x Rick type deal? (Jerck... Rerry... still haven't decided on a ship name)  
I might change my mind should Rick's character make it impossible to jam some semblance of romance into this story.

In the meantime, this story is pretty much just slow-burn Rick/Jerry bonding. I have an outline written for the entire story so there's like a 5% chance I'll finish this! That's actually pretty good for me...

AS A LEGIT, IMPORTANT NOTE: this story is off to a bit of a slow start. There is no real adventure in the first chapter, just me setting up the situation.

* * *

 _Summary_

Jerry, get a job!

-  
AU in which after the events of 3x1, Jerry goes out trying to Not Be Unemployed. When his job search kind of crashes and burns, he asks Rick to help him. Rick takes the opportunity to stick Jerry on a middle-of-nowhere asteroid where he works as a delivery boy for a Flim Flam restaurant. The worst part, Jerry has decided, is that even being in the galaxy's backwoods—even being lightyears away from his family—he just can't get away from Rick...

* * *

.

CHAPTER 1: JERRY, GET A JOB!

.

He tried to fend for himself at first.

Jerry packed three cardboard boxes of belongings and a baggy of pills for his next couple meals and threw them in the hovercar before going off to search for a job in the city center. He figured there'd be a lot of positions opening up, what with the whole galactic government collapsing and everything. But this wasn't the case. Granted, it had only been hours since the mass exodus that was the dissolution of the galaxy's single, unifying government… But still.

Driving down main street, Jerry noticed that, for the first time in months, everyone out and about was _human_. In fact, he only saw a few aliens and they were spilling out of the alley way, tie-dyed with the blood of multiple species. One of them was still twitching, reaching out towards Jerry's car—but then a man appeared from behind the alien and raised something high above his head before smashing it down, down, down, over and over again.

"Jesus," he breathed. "Is that Morty's math teacher?"

He shook his head and continued crawling up the road, carefully avoiding potholes and patches of fire attached to scattered debris. There were still trails of white smoke in the sky from when the aliens started fleeing Earth. To Jerry, the streaks sort of looked like slashes in a teddy bear's tummy, all the stuffing bursting out.

Eventually, Jerry gave up on searching for a business that _wasn't_ being looted, so he just parked himself in an empty lot near Wal-Mart and cranked his chair back as far as it would go. It's temporary, he told himself. I'll get a job tomorrow and I'll be off the streets just like that. After all, Jerry wasn't completely without skills. He spent quite a while working in the office doing… well, he wasn't sure _what_ his job was, but he was pretty sure he was doing well if the regular raises were any indication. By now, though, he was kind of wishing he was paid in money in lieu of, y'know… pills.

Well, no matter. It was temporary.

...

… Except it actually wasn't. Jerry woke up day after day in his car, drove through the city, begged for money and sometimes for a job. But nothing was working. The city was still ransacked and most people were bartering for their needs, which is how Jerry found his few belongings slipping one-by-one into the hands of others. _Awesome._

This is what led Jerry to, in an act of desperation, sneak into the Smith (—or was it Sanchez now? God, he hoped not—) household at midday, covered in dirt and stinking of body odor. By then, all of his other clothes had been bartered off for food or food equivalents, and for a portable charger so Jerry could use his iPad.. Jerry figured as long as he could keep himself clean, one change was enough. He could wash it in a gas station bathroom when needed. Except then he fell face-first into some mud. And, well. That gas station thing was just a _suggestion_ —he didn't think he'd actually need to wash himself in the sink! That was just pathetic.

Soooooooo, he went home to use the laundry. In and out, he told himself. I can be in and out in two hours and no one'll know. Rick was usually gone all day and everyone else was at work or school—Jerry remembered this from his time between jobs.

Jerry shed his clothes pretty much as soon as he entered the garage, stuffing them into the wash at record speed before racing upstairs to use the shower.

While drying himself off, he looked around the bathroom because, well… He was in need! Meanwhile, the rest of his family was abounding with food and soap and water and _beer_ … They wouldn't miss a few towels or a bottle of shampoo.

Jerry smiled and gathered what he could.

This was not _looting_ , he told himself even as he rooted through the fridge, hunched and peeking fervently over his shoulder every few minutes. It's _borrowing_ , not looting. Borrowing. He'll repay them as soon as he can.

"Yeth," Jerry groaned and leaned against the side of the washing machine, which was still rumbling. He was holding a plastic container of leftover lasagna, shoveling it into his mouth with his bare hand 'cause in his panic he'd sort of forgotten to grab a fork and, well, he was kind of scared to go back in the house… "Oh my god, so gooood."

He'd forgotten that real food was so… _flavorful_. The pills had some flavoring too, but they lacked texture and could never quite shake the medicinal aftertaste. This, though. This was some real, delicious—

There was an electronic sucking sound and Jerry felt his hairs stand on end.

Rick emerged from a green portal.

"Jerry? W-what the fuck are you doing here? And—ugh, why're you naked?"

Jerry scrambled for the towel he'd discarded, dragging it over his crotch with one hand—the other was still full of lasagna. "Um–I—"

"No, nevermind, I-I don't—uuRp—care," Rick walked towards his workbench, the green portal dissolving behind him. "Just leave."

"But-but my clothes!" cried Jerry.

Rick didn't even look over his shoulder. "So get your clothes and _then_ leave, Jesus Christ, Jerry, d'you need–should I write out some directions for you?"

"Rick!" Jerry looked down at his lasagna filled hand, his bare torso and pudgy stomach. He grimaced and tried to scrape the food back into the plastic container. "My clothes are wet. I'll leave when they're dry."

"Fine, whatever, can you—will you… Fuck it, go to the living room, Jerry."

Jerry eyed the door to the kitchen. "What if someone comes home?"

For a moment, there is silence. Jerry watches Rick's shoulders slump. He looks up at the ceiling, muttering something Jerry can't hear. "Jerry, give me your clothes."

"Um," he put aside his food. "Excuse me?"

"Just–give me your clothes. I'll–I'm gonna clean 'em up real fast so you can go and, and stop being a _pain in my ass_."

"Wait, really?" Jerry's giddiness is pretty much immediately doused by suspicion. He narrows his eyes. "That's… really nice of you, Rick… Why?"

"So I can get you _out_ of here, Jerry—" Rick waved his hand impatiently and then pulled out his flask, taking a long swig. "UUuurI-I-I-I-I don't have time for all your stupid little questions, just gimme the clothes."

Jerry somehow managed to get to his feet, awkwardly drawing his soaked towel around his body and shuffling to the washing machine. He chuckled nervously, glancing back at Rick as he drew his clothes from the wash and tossed them underhand to Rick.

Rick didn't bother catching them. He let them fall onto the garage floor with a wet splat and instead rifled through a nearby cabinet, shoving his arm and his head into it for a good minute before re-emerging with what looked like a spray bottle and a corked flask of something purple and viscous.

Rick slammed the flask onto his workbench, snapping off the cork with a thumb while simultaneously reaching for a beaker of water… well, it was clear at least. It had to be water, right?

Rick poured the water into the flask. It sizzled and popped, he burped, and then deposited the whole thing in a spray bottle.

"That," Jerry cleared his throat. "Um, that won't stain, right?"

Rick didn't answer. He just squeezed the spray bottle repeatedly and Jerry watched as a shimmering mist descended over his clothes.

"Don–uUuurp–done." With that, Rick heaved a sigh and chucked the spray bottle into the still-open cabinet.

Jerry swallowed and approached the clothes as soon as all the mist settled. He kind of expected something to go wrong, but the clothes were perfectly dry, except they were kind of wrinkled, which wasn't _ideal_ , but… "Thanks, Rick."

Rick grunted, hunched over a notebook.

"Um, Rick?"

"JEsus chRIST, Jerry, w-w-whaddyou want now?"

Jerry cleared his throat, fists bunching into the wet towel as he looked down at his clothes. "Well, um. I was, um. Well, the job market's a little… stagnant since the collapse of the galactic government, y'know? So, uh. I was—"

Rick swiveled toward Jerry, eyes half-lidded with boredom. Some dribble leaked from his mouth.

"Can you–" Jerry winced at the sound of his own, whiny voice. He cleared his throat again and tried to channel his old man-of-the-house mentality. "Rick, I need a job! And-and you owe me! After all this time, y'know, taking my son on-on your crazy adventures, keeping unauthorized alien prisoners with space AIDs, destroying the house–" at this point, Jerry gestured to the patched up hole in the garage ceiling, "–taking down the goddamn government, and-and the whole time paying _no_ rent…!" Jerry breathed heavily through his nose, bringing his eyes up to meet Rick's.

Rick took a long, slow sip from his flask.

And then he sighed. "Follow me." He stood up and walked to the kitchen door in three strides, flinging it open and disappearing into the house.

Jerry just blinked disbelievingly. "Wait, really?"

"Jerry," Rick called, "I said _follow._ "

A shy grin crawled up Jerry's face. He _knew_ he could get a job! Hurriedly, Jerry scooped up his clothes and lasagna, shuffling after Rick.

Rick was waiting by the front door, one hand in his pocket and the other on the knob. As Jerry approached, he opened the door and nodded his head towards the outside world. "Just through there."

Jerry complied, asking, "Where're we going?" as he went through the frame.

Rick just burped. "Out."

Jerry hummed at the base of the front steps, tensing at the chill of the air. He was about to inquire more about where _exactly_ 'out' was and how they were going to get there, but before he could open his mouth, he heard a slam. Jerry whipped around to see Rick visible through the door's frosted glass. The lock clicked.

With that, Jerry's jaw dropped. He let his clothes fall and shuffled back up the steps to bang on the door. "Hey! Hey, what the hell!"

Rick didn't answer. His figure just turned and began walking down the hall, back towards the kitchen.

"Rick! What the–ah, god." Jerry let his fist fall back to his side. "What an asshole."

He gathered his clothes with a sigh, heading off in the direction of his car. At least he had the lasagna.

.

* * *

A/N:

What did you think? Next chapter will have an off-planet sort of adventure. After that, the chapters will mostly be Rick n' Jerry's craaaaazy hijinks! Oh my god I am ashamed of myself.


	2. Jerry Actually Gets a Job

_Recap_

After Beth kicks Jerry out, Jerry decides to look for a job in the city. Buuut that turns out to be a bad idea, 'cause instead of being honest human beings in the face of lawlessness, everyone's just kind of pillaging defenseless businesses. In desperation, Jerry returns to his house if only to feed himself and wash his clothes. When he sees Rick, he finds himself asking for help in the job search. Rick is like, "Nah," and kicks him out.

* * *

 _Summary_

Rick has a change of heart.

* * *

.

CHAPTER 2: JERRY ACTUALLY GETS A JOB

.

Jerry stood on the corner of first and main in old town, arguing with Carlotta Charlusse.

"They're durable, I swear!" He thrust out his old tidy-whities, stretching them between his two hands as a demonstration. "I've had these for three years and they barely looked a year old. They're guaranteed to last another five years at _least..._ "

Carlotta grimaced, her big trench coat jangling as she shifted positions. Out of one of her many hidden pockets, she pulled a small cardboard box containing an assortment of cigarettes (all of which appeared to be different brands).

"Jerry, listen," she said, lighting her smoke. She coughed a second later and then resumed speaking, her voice gravelly and grating. "I know you're desperate. I know. But I'm runnin' a business here! I can't give you a bag of pills for those old things!" Carlotta reached into another pocket and drew a pair of nice, clean panties from their depths. "See this? See how nice these are? I paid with a half-empty tube of lipstick. Even these ain't worth pills." She shook her head. "Those old things you got ain't worth a skid mark."

Jerry bunched up the underwear in his fists, fighting back tears. "Carlotta, _please_. I'm so hungry."

Carlotta rolled her eyes. "Oh, quit yer cryin'. Like I don't know what it feel like to starve. You're not starvin' till you're eatin' mouse shit." She dropped her cigarette and squashed it under her heel. "Come see me when you're worth something, aight?"

She stalked away, her back straight and heels clicking. She had an air about her like she was a queen in a fur coat rather than a wrinkly ex-prostitute wearing a modified trench coat.

Jerry let his head hang. _Oh, here come the waterworks._ Tears dripped onto the sidewalk and Jerry stuffed a fist in his mouth, hoping to stifle his sobs and maybe alleviate his intense hunger for a moment too.

Which is when, from behind him, he heard a distinct slurp.

Jerry whipped around, wiping tears from his cheeks. "R-rick?"

Rick looked him up and down. "Pretty pathetic, Jerry."

Jerry looked away. "Great. So you're here to watch me suffer, huh?"

Rick scowled. "Gee, thanks. I came here to get you a fuckin' job and you treat me like that? Way grate—way to be grateful, _Jerry_."

Jerry's head snapped up. "Wait, really?" he blurted. And then he cleared his throat, narrowing his eyes as he said, "Wait… why… what's in it for you?"

"Can't a guy just do something nice?" Rick glared and took ahold of Jerry's shirt. "C'mon, just—just, let's go. You're frustrating me."

"But—"

Rick was already walking, Jerry forced to stumble in his wake. He dropped his undies in the process and thought about stopping to pick them up but, y'know, he was kind of scared of what Rick would do if he tried…

Rick dragged Jerry into a nearby alleyway where his ship was parked. "Get in," Rick shoved Jerry aside and climbed into the driver's seat.

Jerry followed suit, gingerly closing the passenger door and searching for a seatbelt. When he looked up, Rick was taking another swig from his flask.

"Should you really be drinking and driving?"

"Jerry, my _drunk_ is still a-a-a-a-a thousand times more lucid than your sober, so maybe-maybe shut the fuck up, okay, _Jerry?_ "

"Okay, jeez…"

Rick glared at the windshield, muttering under his breath as he flicked countless switches. He pulled up and within a minute, they were entering the lower tiers of Earth's atmosphere.

"Hey, wait, where're we going? I thought we were gonna—"

"Yeah, w-w-well, my—it's not like my whole day revolves around _you_ , JerRY. We're visiting some friends."

Jerry muttered something like, _how do YOU have FRIENDS?_ , but it quiet enough that it didn't garner a response from Rick. Jerry frowned and shifted himself towards the window, subconsciously shielding himself from Rick as he leaned his elbow on the sill of the spaceship.

It was weird how empty the Earth's sky was—just a month ago, you couldn't look up without seeing at least twenty hovercars and galactic vehicles perusing the sky. The roads were pretty clear during that time, aside from the very few cars that sometimes passed (the Galactic Federation had deemed most cars a health hazard, so only electric cars remained on the road and even those weren't allowed out past eight on weekdays).

Jerry had never thought he'd be interested in an alien way of life, but he _liked_ not having to look both ways while crossing the street. He liked how quiet and functional the world was without traffic jams and news editorials on devastating car accidents.

Oh, and that wasn't to mention the _clothes_. They had been made of some strange lightweight material, strong and supple, like soft chainmail. The cloth couldn't be broken by a blade but it was never too hot or anything like that either. Jerry bought a new suit at least once a month while the Federation was in charge; it was just so convenient! He never had to worry about carrying money on him since Fed credits were partially logged onto a chip in his wrist, and he never had to budget to make sure there'd still be enough leftover to buy groceries. All that was covered for him; he job supplied him nutrition supplements and, after he'd paid off his inital debt the the government, his credits kept building up!

But all that was over, thought Jerry as he blinked himself back to reality. He twisted around in his seat, looking back through the windshield at a shrinking Earth. When he turned back around, he sighed and slumped, fixing his eyes on distant stars.

"Hey," he said after another second, "Why're you bothering with this? I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm glad but… well, if this is a ploy or some sort, do you mind just… leaving me out? I've had a rough couple of weeks."

Rick burped, sitting back as the two cruised through space. He gave an exhausted sigh before speaking. "Listen, you—I'm not doing this for you or _to_ you. I know you're not gonna leave us alone unless you've got a job. You'll keep washing your clothes in the garage and taking our food and I'm just, I don't wanna deal with that shit. Got it?"

"I knew it was something," muttered Jerry, "It's always something. You know–"

With that, Rick flung out his long arm and twisted a dial. Alien music crackled loudly on the speakers, effectively drowning out Jerry's complaints. Jerry shut his mouth, brows creased as he listened to the strange syncopations oozing from the ship's radio.

He definitely preferred human music.

...

After a half-hour, Rick sat up and took hold of the steering wheel. He steered downward and only then did Jerry realize they were approaching a large asteroid covered in suspicious-looking buildings, many lit by neon lights.

He yelped when Rick's knobbly old fist thrust itself under his face.

"Take thIS," Rick shoved something small into Jerry's hand—a pill.

His mouth watered. Was it turkey-flavored? Maybe it was a grilled ham-and-cheese. Oh, or creme brulee… "What is—"

"It's so you don't _die_ out there, Jerry, just take it, jeSUS christ."

Jerry dry-swallowed the pill, having gotten quite used to it over the past few months. He was disappointed when it didn't taste like anything aside from chemical _ass_.

Rick landed the ship in an empty strip mall parking lot and slipped quietly out of the door. Jerry followed suit, staring at the surrounding buildings—all the signs were in alien languages, most with little neon caricatures beside them illustrating the business's purpose. At least that's what Jerry assumed. One had a strange blob thing that appeared to be sliding down a stripper pole with each flash, and another had some kind of weird boxy-thing covered in spots, above which were little heat squiggles.

Rick dragged him towards a low, beige building with flickering fluorescent lights and a sign illustrating what looked like a pile of pancakes. Rick's strides were quick and purposeful. Jerry didn't have short legs or anything, but he found he had to do a sort of half-run to keep up with the guy.

Rick burst through the door of the business; immediately, four creatures looked up from a table at which they appeared to have been playing cards. Jerry stopped walking as soon as he entered the room, but Rick went right up to them and started talking.

Or, actually, grunting. His voice came out guttural and… yeah, nope, there were no english words in there, nope. Jerry was reminded of his brief trip out of the Jerryboree. He wiped his sweaty hands on his pants.

One of the alien creatures had a wide, reptilian face with pupils slit horizontally and a long mane of coarse hair falling down his back and sticking to a stained wife beater. The alien right next to the reptile thing was just an translucent, dripping blue blob whose organs could easily be seen suspended in his body. The other two aliens, meanwhile, looked like Kermit the Frog caricatures, with glowing orange eyes and little moist skin flaps by the neck and ears.

"Jerry," Rick turned to look over his shoulder and the aliens followed his gaze. "What're you doing back there, come on."

Jerry smiled nervously and rushed up to Rick's side.

The aliens kept looking at him. One of the Kermit-the-Frog creatures started talking to him, even, but he couldn't understand the—

Jerry felt a sharp pain in his arm. He recoiled, a hand slapping over the spot as he stared at Rick. "Ow! What the–"

"Just listen," said Rick, wrapping his syringe in a cloth before tucking it back in his coat pocket.

Jerry gulped; the Kermit was still speaking, except as the seconds ticked on, Jerry was finding it less and less difficult to understand.

"–gotta know how to drive a spaceship. Obviously. This is a Flim Flam delivery service, it ain't gonna fly if you don't know that. Does he?" Kermit then turned to Rick. Rick just shrugged. "Well, I guess it's not too hard. Anyway, yeah, we can't pay you much but we've got an extra room and we could really use the extra hands so… what do you think?"

Jerry opened his mouth, but before he could ask one of his millions of questions, Rick interrupted. "He'll take it."

"Um," Jerry leaned over to hiss in Rick's ear. "What am I taking?"

Rick grimaced and pulled back. "A _job_ , Jerry. You're taking the job." He thrust his chin at Kermit, and Jerry followed the gesture. Kermit's… hands… were clasped together and his already wide mouth had stretched even further across his face. A smile, Jerry hoped.

"Wait," Jerry said slowly, leaning towards Rick again. "Wait, I thought we were running an—"

"He wants to start ASAuuurhhP," burped Rick.

"Hey—"

"All right," the Kermit rose. "Then let's get started."

"Thanks, Renchin, this means a louUut." Rick banged his chest and spit a little phlegm to the side. The aliens didn't appear to mind—in fact, the blue blob shuffled over with a cup and scooped the snot off the ground before shoving it in his… well, Jerry wasn't sure _what_ that opening was. Was it a mouth? A butthole?

"Anytime, Rick, we owe you." Kermit bared his teeth and Jerry recoiled.

"But–"

"Ah," Rick waved away the compliment. "You-you let me know if you wanna get rid of him. He can be a real pain sometimes."

"Rick–"

Kermit let out a weird chortling noise. "Sure. See you next week for Klammy Tams?"

"'CouUUurse, bab-eeee! Gonna beat yer ass so hard."

"Yeah, right, Rick, that's whatchu said last time–"

"I was goin' easy," Rick took a swig and grinned; yellow teeth and red gums. His free hand bunched itself into the back of Jerry's polo. Jerry stared at Rick, and Rick hissed, " _It's this or the homeless shelter_."

Jerry thought of piss and lines for stew and asking for more porridge, please… He'd never been to a homeless shelter but he imagined it to be much like Oliver Twist (clarification: what little he actually _knew_ about Oliver Twist). Jerry gulped and let his shoulders drop in resignation.

Rick released him and exchanged some lighthearted quips with the Kermit before leaving. Jerry watched helplessly as Rick swaggered to the door, lifting a single hand in goodbye. He didn't turn back until he watched the spaceship disappear into the stars. Jerry was realizing that, as usual, this was a huge mistake. How was he gonna contact Beth? The kids? How was he gonna get ho–

"So," a slimy hand landed on his shoulder courtesy of the coarse-haired reptile. It guided him towards a swing-door into the kitchen. "Letsa getchu to your room, eh? Work start tomorrow. It be fine."

"Oh-ohkay." Jerry let himself be led, glancing over his shoulder to see the three remaining aliens with their eyes glued to him. He didn't think he'd sleep much tonight.

.

* * *

A/N:

Up next—Jerry regrets his decision! What a surprise.


	3. Jerry Unsanitary

_Recap_

Rick gets Jerry a job on an out-of-the-way asteroid after a desperate

Jerry begs Rick for help in his job search.

* * *

 _Summary_

Jerry, predictably, regrets his decision to accept a job as Flim Flam delivery boy in the backwoods of the galaxy

* * *

.

CHAPTER 3: JERRY UNSANITARY

 _3 weeks P.E. (post-earth)_

 _translation for you dopes: 3 weeks after beginning his job_

.

Jerry had no trouble learning to drive the Flim Flam spaceship—as far as operating it went, it wasn't much different from his government-issued hovercar back on Earth. Jerry even recognized a faded Galactic Federation sticker on the windshield.

The vehicle was van-shaped, like the thing Rick had flown after the disastrous wedding incident. It had shelves upon which Flim Flam boxes could be stacked and crates full of the little dipping sauces served with the 'flams. Oftentimes, the store got orders from a galaxy or two over, which was about a six light-hour drive there and back depending on the planet or asteroid. Honestly, Jerry didn't see the big deal with these flim flams; they didn't seem worth the long wait. They were just deep-fried pancake bits, or at least that's what they looked like. Jerry had never really tried them, just 'cause he was always kind of terrified he'd develop some kind of alien infection right after (*cough* like with the Cherry Garcia incident *cough*) and, according to Renchin, the nearest hospital with any knowledge of human anatomy was an hour away.

Instead, Jerry had been living off the little bits of recognizable food that he had found on his travels—mostly nightcrawler paté (which was apparently the galaxy's equivalent to convenience store chicken salad sandwiches) and a half-empty jar of old Skippy peanut butter he was able to find behind a trash can a few galactic days after he started working ("Well, yeah, Skippy is a galactic enterprise," Renchin scoffed, "What, you think your run-down planet is the _only_ place in the universe that has peanut butter?").

Jerry had lost a couple of pounds because of his new diet, so he figured that was sort of a plus, except that he kept losing weight in _just_ his legs and upper chest so he looked sort of weird now. He maintained a pudgy belly, but now his ribs were visible and he walked on stick legs.

Jerry sighed at the wheel of the spacevan. It shuddered every once in awhile, but that had long since ceased to disturb Jerry.

He was bored.

 _Really_ bored.

That was the downside to this job. The deliveries themselves were not too hard, usually (excepting that one time, when his customer tried to absorb him… of course, Renchin later told him this was a way of greeting for that particular species, but it was terrifying nonetheless).

It was the traveling that really got to him. Jerry had never been great at keeping himself entertained; it's why he hated school and why he hated being unemployed. Without something to do, Jerry was just sort of… useless.

Empty.

His thoughts were sluggish and mundane, and he'd heave sighs so often that he'd get to checking the oxygen meter every 30 minutes to make sure he wouldn't suffocate (there was supposed to be an emergency escape pod, but it's housing cubicle was rusty and full of trash. It hadn't contained a pod in a long time).

He had to admit, without the distraction of seeking for employment, Jerry was missing home. He missed Summer's constant attitude, and Morty's increasingly flat expression (seriously, it was reminding him of Rick more and more every day). God, and he _really_ missed Beth—her soft skin, the freckles on her nose, the glare in her eyes… Yeah, that last part wasn't so great. But it was still Beth and Jerry loved her.

Why were they apart again? Oh, yeah. Rick.

Jerry had made an ultimatum—Rick or himself. Beth chose her father, as she always did, and this knowledge had at first been enough to keep Jerry angry rather than sad—rather than _lonely_.

But with every day, his conviction was fading. Still, he didn't bother trying to get back home and he wasn't sure why. He supposed he was afraid Beth wouldn't take him back, even after everything he tried to do for her. Sometimes he wished she was less like her father…

Who was he kidding—he _always_ wished that.

...

 _2 Days P.E._

.

"Beth," Jerry panted into the space phone, leaning his head against the exterior side wall of the Flim Flam shop.

There was a crackling on the other end of the line. "Jerry?"

"Beth, oh thank god!" Jerry laughed hysterically. "I was beginning to think you'd changed the number or something. Oh god, I got absorbed by a customer today, it was a night–"

"Listen, Jerry," Beth interrupted, "I think it's great that you're enjoying your new job so much–"

"Wait, wha–"

"–but I'm sort of busy right now, and, well… I don't think I'm really ready to talk to you yet. Maybe try one of the kids–"

"Wait, Beth–"

"Bye, Jerry."

And with that, the line went dead.

Jerry slammed the metal hunk back into the receiver. "Well, that was a waste of a flurbo," he muttered. There was still goo on his clothes from where he was forced to dig himself out of his customer earlier that galactic day.

Renchin had been waiting at the door when Jerry returned. He handed him a couple of semi-soiled rags and nodded his head towards the basement door. Apparently the customer had left a bad Yelp review, as this kind of punishment was standard procedure for what Renchin called, _failing to serve_.

So Jerry had spent much of his night wiping up multicolored liquids of an unknown origin. The smells were interesting—a mix of metals, sometimes salts, sometimes something that even held a vaguely sweet scent. Other liquids were, of course, worse. They reeked of a mixture of rotted flesh and sewage and BO and, well, a thousand other things Jerry hadn't even experienced anywhere else. But even the mystery smells were better than the chunks… god, Jerry hated cleaning up the chunks. He usually had to grab them in order to stuff them into a trash bag and, despite his hands being gloved, he could still feel waaaaay too much.

Jerry was still wondering what exactly they were doing down there that led to such nastiness. He knew from his days off that the reptilian dude, Scallion, and one of the Kermits spent most of the day down there. Sometimes they left for awhile and came back with big boxes, but there was nothing of the sort left when Jerry cleaned the area. He figured their stuff was stored within whatever room the solid metal door under the stairwell led to. He just didn't get it, though. What could produce this much filth in so little time?

But Jerry didn't question it out loud. He just wiped up the fluids and was done with it. Afterwards, he went outside to call Beth, hoping her voice would give him some sort of strength.

Instead, Beth did what she was best at. She reminded him that despite everything he'd done for her, he was nothing in her eyes.

...

 _3 Weeks P.E._

 _._

If there was one thing going for the job of Flim Flam delivery boy, it was the hours. Jerry didn't get paid a lot, but he had a lot of freetime, which was both a good and a bad thing. On one hand, he could do whatever he wanted—so far, he'd learned how to play Klammy Tams with a deck of old, A-Beta-3Z cards. That in itself took awhile, 'cause the game was so damn complicated. Even now, Jerry was kind of awful at it.

And see, there was the downside to the whole thing. Jerry quickly ran out of things to do. Renchin suggested he visit the stripper bar across the lot, but the idea terrified Jerry. He'd only ventured as far as the neighboring pawn shop (that's where he'd bought the deck of cards), and even then he couldn't stand the place for very long.

He just hated going outside period, unless he spent that time in the van. Nothing felt safe… And it didn't help that the parking lot was infested with a parasitic glow-worm that'd liquefy your guts in about a half-hour flat if you weren't careful.

Still, Jerry was kind of disliking the monotony of daily life on Asteroid Beta in belt 3Z. Or, as it was known in the native language: Oaowortpyooooap. That was pronounced "Springfield."

He found himself wishing he still had his iPad several times a day, _especially_ on deliveries.

Jerry had flown back to Earth _once_ for Summer's graduation but the trip took him almost an entire day (having underestimated the time it would take to reach Earth, he missed Summer's graduation so she didn't speak to him once while he was visiting). He supposed his ship wasn't as state-of-the-art as Rick's stupid space trash can.

And there it was, a pro among cons. If there was one thing Jerry could truly appreciate, it was the lack of Rick in his life.

Jerry must've jinxed himself, 'cause the moment he started to appreciate the upsides to his otherwise terrible job was also the moment Rick showed up again.

Jerry had just returned from a day of especially exhausting Flim Flam deliveries only to find Rick sitting in the shop with his head stuffed inside the abdomen of the blue, translucent alien. The blue alien seemed to be nodding with every twitch of Rick's head.

Jerry just stood at the door watching this scene unfold. Renchin, the other Kermit, and Scallion were all sitting nearby, chatting as if this were the most normal thing in the world.

Rick put his hands on the table and used them to pull his head back out of the blue guy. He popped free with a wet squelch and wiped his face on the sleeve of his lab coat. "C'mon, Morty, it's your turn. Don't be rude."

It was then that Jerry noticed his son off to the side, rubbing his elbow. Morty blinked as if he didn't quite remember where he was and then he said, "Oh, yeah," before proceeding to stuff his head into the blue dude.

"Morty, what the hell?" Jerry didn't realize that he had even spoken until all eyes in the room locked on his—this was including Morty's, which didn't seem in the least concerned despite being suspended in alien goo.

Jerry couldn't help noticing that pretty much every single one of his coworkers tensed up at his presence. He tried not to be offended. Maybe they were just xenophobic. _Maybe this is how black people feel all the time_ , Jerry pondered.

"Jerry," Rick rolled his eyes and adjusted his positioning so that his long legs were splayed out under the table. He had about ten Klammy Tam cards in his hands, fanned out like the group was just starting a game. "Stay out of it. _Obviously_ , Morty is politely greeting one of our hosts. Not that you'd know anything about being polite…"

"That was unnecessarily rude," murmured Jerry, shrugging off his Flim Flam delivery boy jacket.

"Hey, Jerry," Renchin called without turning around. His eyes were glued to his Klammy Tam hand. "Why don't you, uh, go get us some beers or somethin' from the club across the street?"

Jerry grimaced. He'd never actually ventured that far from the shop before… well, y'know, aside from all his deliveries, but that was different. And besides, Jerry knew they just wanted to get rid of him, so he decided to offer an alternative. "Uh, if it's okay, I'm just gonna go lie down…"

"No, c'mon, _Jerry_ ," Rick's bony hand buried itself into the neck of Morty's t-shirt and tugged hard until Morty came bursting out of the blue alien with a wet _pop_. Morty blinked away the slime on his face. "Take Morty, it'll be fun."

"Take me whuh?" But even as he asked the question, Morty was wandering over to Jerry. Morty was subservient in a way Jerry could only dream of being.

...

Jerry would never admit it if asked, but it was Morty who took the lead—Morty who walked across the parking lot to the liquor store, Morty who asked for the cashier's opinion on a few brands of beer, and Morty who finally coaxed a few flurbos from Jerry's pocket so he could pay for the final choice.

"You get used to it, dad." Morty said this as he scooped up the bag of beers.

Jerry ran a hand through his hair. He smelled like Flim Flam grease. "Morty, I appreciate you trying to make this all a bit less weird, but it's different for you. You get to go home to Earth." He sighed and looked out the window at the perpetual night sky that shone through the asteroid's thin, almost nonexistent, atmosphere. There was no sun, unless you counted a burning mass suspended amid the rest of the stars, easily outshining them. Still, it failed to light up A-Beta-3Z.

Morty seemed irritated when Jerry looked back at him. "C-c'mon, dad, it's not that bad. You're not stuck here, you've got the van."

Jerry opened the glass door of the liquor store for his son, frowning. "I don't expect you to understand, son."

"Well, jeez, dad, if you wanna be like that, be like that! But you're just making it worse for yourself." Morty walked quickly past Jerry.

"Okay, Mr. Space Expert, how do _you_ suggest I approach this situation then?"

Morty didn't answer for a moment and Jerry took the opportunity to grab the beer bag from his hands. It made him feel a bit more… normal, to be carrying groceries across a parking lot. Like in just a few minutes, he'd be driving their old sedan back home. Like Beth would be waiting with dinner and a frown, Summer with her constant apathy… Jerry tried to blink away the memories.

"Well," began Morty, oblivious to the hand-off of the beer bag, "First off… I mean, dad, besides Rick, you have the coolest job of-of anyone on earth. So there's something, right? You get to, to go all over space, delivering those flams or whatevers, and it's like a normal thing for you. How cool is that?"

Jerry frowned and looked away. Morty just didn't get it. Yeah, space was objectively impressive, but it wasn't like Jerry ever wanted to be an astronaut. Not since before he found out he was bad at school, at least. Morty was different in that way. Morty never really understood his inadequacy. He loved space the way he loved Rick—without ever realizing either thing was far beyond his comprehension.

But Jerry knew better.

Christ, he needed a drink. Jerry looked wistfully down at the grocery bag swinging by his side. "Do you think Rick would mind if I took one of these beers?"

"Oh, I-I dunno about that, dad," Morty peeked into the bag. "Beers out here aren't like the ones back home."

Jerry sighed. "They're probably not lite either."

"Yeah, prolly not."

Jerry and Morty continued their walk across the pothole-ridden lot, deftly dodging the glow-worm parasites that regularly reach through cracks in the asphalt. Morty's eyes were on the black horizon and Jerry's traveled across the neon street signs. From a distance, Jerry was sure, they looked like father and son. But sometimes Jerry was afraid he is becoming less and less of a father to Morty.

The insecurity was chased away by the light of Morty's smile when he caught sight of a strange plant sprouting in a crater.

"H-hey, dad, look at that! Look at that wacky plant. What do you think–how do you think that plant—do you think it needs water?" Morty beamed up at Jerry.

Jerry smiled back. Now, _this_ was more like it—this is how he was used to talking to his son. Back when they used to garden together, Jerry was always the expert, the one Morty looked up to. Jerry had quite loved that, especially since while Jerry knew quite a lot about plants, he was very poor at caring for them. Morty, on the other hand, was always a natural.

Jerry remembered that, while earth was under Federation control, he and Morty had easily drifted back into the habit of gardening every evening. Jerry had been worried Morty would feel to worldly (or universely?) for mere gardening, but Morty didn't seem very bothered by Rick's absence at all, and this gave Jerry hope for their father-son relationship—that is, until Jerry saw the look of unrestrained joy on Morty's face when he emerged from the portal with Rick on the day the Federation collapsed.

Even though Rick likely had no _idea_ that Morty was a special kid, Morty went crawling back to the guy. Just like Summer, and just like Beth…

"Dad?" Morty peered up at Jerry.

Jerry's shook himself again, straightening. He peered down his nose at the spiraling plant in the crater at their feet—it looked almost like a cluster of Morning Glories, only the flower petals appeared to be leathery in texture and the greenery itself was black with glowing green veins.

"Hmm. I'm not sure, son. I suppose it must be like one of those cave plants, though. It's always dark here."

He looked at Morty, who had by now kneeled to examine the plant. Jerry noticed, however, that Morty did not dare reach out to touch it, and this was something he could understand. They weren't in Kansas anymore—nothing was safe, no matter how innocuous it appeared.

"So, Morty." Morty hummed in response, having gathered a stick with which to play with the leaves of the plant. "You're still into plants, huh?"

Morty nodded, looking sort of dazed in a way Jerry chose not to question. "Yeah, they're pretty cool, I guess."

"Does…. Rick know?"

At this, Morty looked up, his expression twisted. The whites of his eyes looked greenish in the dim light of the parking lot. "I don't know, does it matter?"

Jerry shrugged. "I'm just saying, I think a real grandfather would _know_ this stuff about his grand–"

"Aw, jeez, Dad." Morty sighed and stood up, brushing pebbles from his jeans. Jerry noticed that he was swaying. He still held the twig in one hand. "Stop worrying about Rick so much. Y'know, he's not such a—he's an okay guy."

Jerry huffed and put down the bag of beers, shaking out his arm afterwards. Damn, those things were heavy. "You guys are—he's insane!" He pointed accusingly at the Flim Flam restaurant. Meanwhile, Morty blinked… really slowly. His eyes were closed for a good minute and he swayed on his feet some more. But Jerry was too caught up in his own frustration to think much of it. "You guys are always defending him, but he's crazy! He's _crazy!_ A-a-and toxic, and when are you gonna realize it? Morty!" Jerry softened, bending to meet Morty's unfocused gaze. "Morty, I don't want you to end up like your mom. You know I love her, but she's got, like… stockholm syndrome! I just don't want you to have to grow up like that, always feeling…" Jerry trailed off. He wasn't sure how to complete his thought. Always feeling like what?

Morty rubbed at his temples. He opened his mouth, "Ughr, my head hurts. And… and y'know, dad, maybe–" He stopped, his hands flying up to grip at his t-shirt, his entire body going rigid. "Uhrhrhghhhg…"

"Whoa, Morty," Jerry placed his hands on Morty's shoulders. His skin was hot, through the yellow fabric of his t-shirt. "Jesus, are you okay?"

Morty gurgled out a few more sounds, expression caught in a moment of despair. Then he let out a gasp, all the air spilling from his lungs. "Aw, jeez, I don't feel so good."

"Yeah, you don't look so great either," murmured Jerry, feeling a twang of sympathy for his son despite his earlier frustration. His eyes wandered down to Morty's clenched fist. Sticking out of his left hand was the twig he had picked up earlier.

Morty started gurgling again, tensing as his abdomen rippled ominously. The whites of his eyes were tinted green, Jerry observed, but that was the last thing he could see before Morty bent to puke all over the lovely flowers. The vomit was all green and glowy; the plant crumbled into dust under its obvious toxicity.

"Get–" Morty gasped, "Get Rick."

Jerry felt something like a stab to his gut. Right. Because Jerry wasn't man enough to deal with this kind of thing. He mentally slapped himself—really, _that_ was his thought right now?! Jerry released Morty and Morty fell to his hands and knees.

Jerry rushed back to the Flim Flam restaurant to interrupt what looked like a booming game of Klammy Tams. Rick took one look at the image of Morty collapsed on the parking lot before throwing down his hand.

"For fuck's sake, Jerry, you-you, I leave you for one minute and you kill my grandson!" He bolted to the doors, leaving Jerry with one more comment: " _And_ you forgot the beers!"

.

* * *

A/N:

Up next—Rick and Jerry's first adventure, precipitated by Morty's accidental poisoning, yooo.

OTHER NOTES:

This chapter gave me a lot of problems so please let me know what you think, what I could improve on, etc. Also, if you wanna be my beta buddy, please let me know because I'd like my posts to be more developed than they are at the moment.


	4. Rick Up The Phone!

_Recap_

Jerry, unsurprisingly, doesn't love his new job... so he's stuck on an asteroid with just his

inferiority complex to keep him company. That is, until Rick and Morty show up.

Everything is going fiiiine, just fine, until Morty starts puking up liquified guts due to what

appears to be a parasitic infection. Way to go, _Jerry._

* * *

 _Summary_

Jerry tries to figure out if Morty is, y'know, still alive and then accidentally

makes a friend out of his scary co-worker. Oh, and Rick

pretty much drags Jerry from work so Jerry can help Rick retrieve a very a special vehicle.

* * *

.

CHAPTER 4: RICK UP THE PHONE!

.

 _Riiiiing._

 _Riiiiing._

 _Riiii–_

There was a fuzzy click and an exhausted breath from the other end of the line. "H-hullo?"

Jerry frowned. "Beth, is that you? You sound horri–… um, _tired_."

"Ugh, Jerry," Beth sighed heavily, but it only translated as prickling static over the lightyears between them. Which was still pretty good, considering the distance. "Shoulda known it was you…"

Jerry let out an awkward laugh. "Don't sound _too_ happy to hear from me."

Beth just sighed again. "What d'you want?"

Jerry tried to maintain the uncomfortable smile on his face before he remembered he was alone outside the Flim-Flameria, with Beth so many galactic hours away in the comfort of what used to be _their_ home. No need for fake smiles.

He sighed. "Listen, I just want to talk to Morty. I wanna see if he's okay."

" _Okay?_ " Beth let out an unusually boisterous laugh. "Okay? Are you– are you kidding? He's bedridden! Dad hadda–he hadda grow him some new– you're lucky he grew some organs for 'im, or Morty'd be…" Beth broke off again into something that was either a laugh or a sob.

"Beth," began Jerry. He shouldn't ask, he really shouldn't ask, but, "Are you drun–?"

"WHAT ARE YOU, MY _MOTHER?_ " Beth hiccuped and even from the asteroid, Jerry knew her blink was uneven, one eye sliding shut before the other. He'd seen her drunk face more than he cared to remember.

Jerry felt unusually calm when he said, "Beth, I'd like to talk to Morty."

"Morty's _asleeeep_ ," slurred Beth. "He's healing from those… the damn worms. From your neglig… neglect."

"Hey, it wasn't my fault!" Jerry's voice went up an octave. "He picked up what he thought was a stick. It was larvae or-or something, I dunno. Rick told you, right?"

Beth was silent. And then quietly, she said, "Dormant larvae."

"Ah, that."

Beth made another choked sound and Jerry listened as the wave of it broke again and again into the phone. One sob right after another.

"Um… you…" He cleared his throat, "You okay over there?"

"No, 'm not uurhh-okay, you insensitive ass!"

"Okay, jeez," Jerry clamped his mouth shut, listening to her drunk despair. She was in stage one of Wine Drunkenness—in which all her weird issues bobbed to the surface. All she had to do was drink more to get past that, to where her brain was soaked in alcohol and she didn't feel anything bad anymore. At least that's how she had put it once, years and years ago—after Summer and before Morty, although Jerry couldn't really pinpoint an exact time. He just remembered she was, unsurprisingly, drunk when she said it. "Maybe you should go to sleep, Beth."

"J-jerry," she sobbed, ignoring his advice completely, as per usual. "My son almost _died_ out there."

Jerry tried not to think about that so much. He kind of wished she hadn't said it, actually, and he tried to bury the comment under some more strained laughter. "Yeah, well. Space, huh? It's a fickle thing, a real… a real scary place, a real big place." He paused. "Lucky he had Rick, though, right?"

Jerry felt his guts twist up a bit. He had only been trying to make Beth feel better, but his own words reminded him of how _useless_ he'd been in that moment, with Morty's insides pouring out through his mouth and onto the pavement, his eyes green and glowing and unfocused, tongue blackening under the toxic weight of his own vomit.

Lucky he had Rick.

For once, it was Jerry who wanted to hang up the phone. But he didn't. He held on, listening to Beth cry.

"Dad–my dad," Beth sobbed. "He couldn't… what if he didn't… oh, god–" Beth's words crumbled after that, sloshing into a jumbled mess further encrypted by the fluctuating waves of static interference.

Jerry found himself wondering exactly where all that static came from. He wasn't even sure how these space phones worked, actually… Like, what, did they run on a series of satellites or–

"I can't, I can't let him.." Beth's voice surfaced, coherent for a moment, before sinking once again into space.

"Beth?" Jerry clutched the phone to his ear. "Beth, I think you should really get some sleep."

The interference cleared up long enough for him to hear her babbling, and then she paused for such a length of time that Jerry knew well enough meant she was gulping down another half-box of Safeway wine.

"Hey, slow–"

"MooooOOoooooooorty," Beth whined, "My son… I let him go and he…"

"Oh-okay, Beth, just… just calm down a bit, okay? It's fine, Morty's fine. I mean, I think, I don't really know, you weren't… too clear on that. Is Morty okay? Is my son okay?" Jerry laughed again. "Hah… is, uh… My son's alive, right? Morty's alive?"

Beth keened some more.

"Jeez," breathed Jerry.

On the other end of the line, there was a clattering. Beth's voice was distanced from the receiver. Jerry could hear her calling, "Dad–hey, daddyyy, daaaadddyyyy…"

Moments later, he heard another voice stabbing it's way into his ears—something rough as torn pavement to Beth's cold-syrup-spilled-on-the-countertop voice.

The rough voice said, "Beth, sweetie–what's, who's that you're talking to, huh? W-who's that?"

Beth ignored Rick, instead crying some more about Morty and daddy and other things Jerry chose to ignore, for his own fragile sanity's sake.

There was more clambering and a second later, Rick's toxic breath forced its way into the speakers. See, Jerry could tell it was him 'cause be exhaled a lot, heavily, and it did not help the already crappy signal. Leave it to Rick to inconvenience a _phone signal._

"Who-whoURRRp–who is this?" burped Rick, "What are you doin', calling at… at midnight, what are you, crazy? This is–we're in suburbia here, everyone's asleep at ten and if they're not that's their business, so just. So just, please refrain from calling again at… at this god-awful hour of the night, o-o-o-o-o-o-kay? Do you got–do you understan–"

"Rick," interrupted Jerry. "Can you _please_ just tell me if Morty's all right or not?"

"Oh, it's you." Jerry was surprised at the lack of disgust in Rick's voice. In fact, he could only hear boredom, really, as opposed to the fiery rant about _suburbia_ he'd listened to just a minute ago.

"Yeah, it's me. Anyway, is my son–"

"Morty's– uruUURp–fine," said Rick, "He'll be up and around by the weekend, good as new."

Jerry let out a relieved breath. "Oh, thank god. Well, can I talk–?"

"AuUuurand," burped Rick, "And thanks to you, Beth's all… she's all hysterical again! Y'know how long it took me to, to calm her down? This-this-this… you got another thing comin' to you, Jerry, if you keep callin' and-and makin' my daughter cry and.."

"Okay!" frowned Jerry, "I get it, I'm sorry. But you can't blame me for wanting to see if my son's _alive_."

"He's fine, don't be such a drama queen."

"And you know what, Rick?" Jerry felt the anger in his gut, seemingly dormant for weeks now, rearing its head. "You could try _not_ putting my son in dangerous situations like that!"

"Yeah, like you were doing anything to help…"

"And keeping an eye on Beth, that'd be nice too! I don't want her to end up an alcoholic like _you._ "

There was a short silence on the other end. Jerry tensed, expecting a tongue lashing from his father-in-law.

But Rick just exhaled sharply again. "I'll put her to bed. Goodnight, Jerry."

"But–"

" _Goodnight_."

The line went dead.

...

When Jerry re-entered the restaurant, Scallion was at the counter reading something on a tablet, as he often was after-hours. He peered up at Jerry, his vertical eyelids narrowing as he tried to discern Jerry's expression.

"Is sad?" he asked.

Jerry shook his head before he even thought about whether or not he _was_ sad. "Just… y'know, talked to the wife. Or soon to be ex, I guess…" Jerry sighed and collapsed onto a nearby barstool, letting his head rest on the counter.

"Female troubles," Scallion nodded sagely. Jerry noticed some alien blood caked under Scallion's long, long nails… "I know the feel. Females, always be wanting one thing, then they ask you for the other thing, and then the other."

Jerry nodded sleepily.

"And then they want sex with the patriarch!" Scallion shook his head.

Jerry just kept nodding even though he had no idea what the guy was talking about at this point.

"It okay, flesh-o-pod." Scallions heavy, cold hand landed on Jerry's shoulder. "Females are not forever."

Jerry closed his eyes, pressing his hot face more closely to the cool linoleum countertop ( _where did they even get linoleum in space?_ was his passing thought), "Thanks, Scallion."

"No problem," Scallion went back to his tablet and Jerry fell asleep face-down on the bleach-scented counter.

He didn't wake up until opening hours the next day, when Renchin so kindly jabbed his side hard enough that Jerry collapsed onto the floor in surprise.

While that moment in itself was not very unusual (he knew the aliens didn't like him too much, or at least didn't understand the delicacy of the human body), Jerry couldn't help but feel comforted by a new softness from the direction of Scallion. Shortly after he rose from the floor, he saw a plate with some mysterious-looking noodles on it. Scallion stood with his arms crossed behind the counter.

"It good for you. Eat."

Jerry thought about declining the offer and then imagined the rest of his life as a delivery worker, friendless in space. He decided possible death-by-poisoning was worth accepting the food. So he smiled a thank you and ate while Scallion went about his business.

From then on, Jerry would find saved plates of food on the counter every 'morning' before his first delivery. And that, Jerry thought, was something he didn't realized he needed until it was there.

...

There was a metallic scraping sound from the direction of the parking lot. Jerry and Renchin looked up from where they sat at a table in a backroom off the kitchen.

"It's Rick," said Renchin, shaking his head in such a way that Jerry had learned was amusement. He went back to sorting through the monthly restaurant receipts as Jerry did the same with his delivery slips.

Seconds later, Rick came bursting through the kitchen's saloon-style doors, stumbling to the table. He slammed his hands down.

"Jerry, come with me!"

Jerry blinked, startled. "Uh, what?"

"Do you need hearing aids, Jerry?! I said _come with me!_ No time, just–" Rick groaned exasperatedly and reached his freakishly long arms across the table, tugging at Jerry's wrist.

"W-wait, I need to–" Rick pulled him over the table, scattering his meticulously organized delivery slips… "Aw, _c'mon!_ "

Renchin just chortled. And also hissed. This was also amusement. "You're excused, Jerry. See you later, Rick."

Rick mumbled something incoherent and then pulled on Jerry again. Jerry was helpless to it all—he trailed behind Rick like a comet's tail, barely able to think as he was led back through the kitchen and the counter and the open seating area and the lot before being flung into the passenger seat of Rick's spaceship.

"No time!" cried Rick, zooming into the blackness above. Jerry felt an unfamiliar swoop in his stomach. He supposed he was satisfied by the ease with which Rick's ship shot into the sky. It was still a rickety sort of thing, but it was way better than the delivery van.

Rick continued mumbling maniacally to himself before drifting into silence, his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel gradually loosening into something resembling a normal driving stance. As normal as you could get with Rick, at least.

Jerry cleared his throat. "Is Morty okay?"

"What?" Rick glanced at Jerry. "Morty's fine."

"Well," Jerry frowned, "Then what's the emergency?"

Rick snorted, flicking on the radio. It initially burst to life, the sound of alien music filling the small space car, but he quickly twisted the volume back to a normal level. "There's no emergency, Jerry."

"Well, then why–"

"'Cause then you'd ask too many _questions_ ," Rick rolled his eyes. "Kind of like you're doing now. Boy, you and Morty only share the shitty traits, huh?"

Jerry huffed. "Great. So I get snatched up by you just so you can crap on my personality the whole time."

Rick snorted. "Don't be so sensitive. I-I-I-I-I-I need _help_ with something, Jerry."

Jerry raised his eyebrows, unimpressed, as he eyed the streaks of light zooming past the windows, the warped image of stars a million miles past, smeared like wet paint.

"Why didn't you just ask _Morty_ ," he muttered.

" _Because_ , dumb ass," Rick smacked the back of Jerry's head and ignored the subsequent cry of pain. "You-you got him grounded with that whole, whole parasite thing!" Rick paused, seemingly fuming. But then he laughed. "See, you-you're not good for much, Jerry, but I gotta admit, Beth's gone a little off the rails since you… you… She's all, she's all worried about Morty now. _Now_. Not last year when he got molested, not–"

"Wait, what? Molested?"

"–when he missed Thanksgiving so he could hang out in a dead guy…"

" _What?!_ "

"Neither of you… But now that they're all you got, and well," Rick laughed again and then punched the steering wheel. They jerked forward and then slowed again.

"Rick," began Jerry, "Are you… okay?"

"You mean sober," Rick's voice was sharp and winding. "To which I must say, no, but I'm a _genius_ , Jerry, and being sober is, is–uuURRRp–overrated anyway."

"Jesus," Jerry massaged at his temples. This is what he had years ago dubbed a back-the-fuck-out-of-the-garage moment—in other words, he didn't want to know what was about to happen and should probably just _leave_. Only now, he was kind of stuck careening forwards into what would probably be an insane plot driven by Rick's alcohol-fueled madness. Jerry sighed in defeat. He wondered if this was how Morty felt all the time. "Okay, Rick. So what're we doing today? Tonight? What time is it?"

Rick ignored Jerry's side questions. "We're gettin' my _spacecar_ back, Jerry!" Rick grinned at Jerry, a manic energy in his wide, shining eyes. Jerry couldn't help thinking that, for the first time, Rick looked less like a crotchety old man and more like an ecstatic child.

Maybe this is what Morty always saw in Rick.

Then Jerry frowned. No, Rick is a dick. That's something you just can't look past. At least he couldn't.

"My _spacecar_ , Jerry!"

"Aren't we in your spacecar?" Jerry muttered.

As expected, Rick was exasperated. " _My original spacecar_ , Jerry. This- didn't you notice this isn't–this one has a fuckin', a fuckin' opaque metal _roof_ Jerry."

"Well, I'm _sorry_ I don't keep tabs on your apparently ever-changing catalogue of vehicles…"

"Shut-shut up, Jerry, just. Shut the fuck up."

Jerry sighed. "Listen, Rick, I… normally, I can sort of put up with you, but I've had a long week. You think we could just get ice cream or something? I mean, what do you need your space car for anyway.."

It took awhile for Rick's frustrated babbling to become coherent. "I-I-I-I-I-I-I don't need to _explain_ myself to you, _Jerry_ , okay? There are things–there's technology in that ship that should _not_ be in the hands of the feds, you hear me? Y-y-y-you got that?"

Jerry just laughed. "What _feds_? You tore down the feds!"

"Yes, thank you for recapitulating all that, _Jerry_ ," Rick took a particularly violent swig from his flask. "I don't expect you to understand, but I only tore down the core government. The really–the rotten thing about the Galactic assholes is they're like, they're like an infestation. There's more out there, little broken up clusters." Rick glared over the steering wheel, one hand swirling the liquid remaining in his flask. "And one of them has my ship."

Jerry stared pensively out of the windshield for a moment, barely noticing when a mini planet crashed into the window and was swept away by the wipers.

"Hey," he said finally, "Do you, uh. Do you think there's a possibility that the Galactic Federation will resurface? 'Cause I really liked my old job, and I–"

"Are you, do you–" Rick burps, "Are you fuckin' serious, _Jerry?_ "

"Well, yeah, I mean, what did they really do? Kill your best friend and arrest you for all the terrible crimes you've committed?" Jerry laughed, "Seems pretty justified for–"

"You know less than _nothing_ about the subject." For once, Rick actually looked… furious. A kind of furious Jerry had never seen. He'd never admit it, but he was terrified and quickly moved to the defensive.

"Hey!" he said, "You had all this time to get your ship back, so don't be–"

"You-you-you can't just go guns _ablazin'_ into the fucking federation, _Jerry,_ you need a _gameplan_."

"Well!" Jerry threw up his hands and then folded his arms, shifting towards the window. "You know, if you're so annoyed with me, you shoulda just left me on that asteroid and taken Summer or something."

Rick was silent for a moment. Out of the corner of his eye, Jerry watched him take an especially deep swig. All the emotion drained from his eyes and his regular, apathetic expression resurfaced, looking simultaneously soft and rigid like a leather-hard clay sculpture of a man.

"I needed someone like you," he muttered, jaw clenched.

Jerry froze, staring at Rick's profile, but the older man didn't look back. His spidery arm simply crawled deftly back to the radio dials, cranking up some arabic-sounding rap backed by a foreign instrument of some sort.

Jerry swallowed and resumed staring out the window, at the barely-real void of space. He thought it kind of funny how there was a massive, deadly vacuum just outside the half-an-inch of glass and metal that made up the space-car's shell, and yet Jerry could not find it in himself to fear this vastness.

Probably because he couldn't understand it. He sighed and glanced sidelong at an impassive Rick.

No, he didn't understand it all. He didn't think he ever would.

.

* * *

A/N:

Up next—Rick may or may not use Jerry as bait...


	5. Chop Toey

_Recap_

Rick forces Jerry to join him on a quest to retrieve his old space ship,

which has been in the hands of the federation since it was confiscated at the wedding.

* * *

 _Summary_

Jerry is literally pushed into an unpleasant situation.

* * *

.

CHAPTER 5: CHOP TOEY

.

A friend, Rick told him. They were meeting a friend, a connection within the federation that was supposed to help Rick get his spacecar back.

Jerry wondered if this was how mob bosses talked, always calling people friends and buddies, smiling while their hands twitched over the trigger. Because this was definitely not some lighthearted fluff, that much Jerry knew when Rick tossed him a heavy-looking Nerf gun. Only it wasn't a Nerf gun at all–it was a 'semi-automatic plasma ray.'

"Be careful," Rick had burped, fixing explosives to the interior of his soon-to-be discarded spaceship. "Sometimes it goes off for, like nouuUURpo reason."

Jerry held the thing at arms length after that comment.

After securing the explosives, Rick led Jerry away from the dock and into the vents of the highly guarded Galactic Federation outpost. The vents were highly variable, switching from spacious to spelunker's nightmare depending on 'what sort of airation a room needs,' according to Rick. Whenever they walked through the large vents, Rick appeared to hold his breath but he never told Jerry to do the same. Jerry supposed there was something in there that he shouldn't be breathing and that was probably why he was so lightheaded. Y'know, aside from the terror that had drilled its way into his very bones.

He tried to mimic Rick's breathing habits in an attempt to assuage his fear. It didn't work and he still felt sort of sick.

"Now," Rick took in a breath and spoke through the strain as they entered another vent—this one large enough to stand in. "Sangulon's in a room below one of these vents. All you need to do is meet him in that room and he'll tell you the rest from there."

Jerry tensed, fear crawling up his spine as he hurried after Rick. "Why do I have to do that?"

"Because, Jerry, what, you think I can do all the legwork here? I-I-I mean c'mon, have a little–be not a little bitch for once, o-okay?"

"But Rick, don't you think this is a little…" Jerry looked down at his gun. "Dangerous?"

"Uh, duh."

Rick swung out an arm to stop Jerry from walking further. He kneeled, working on a metal panel in the floor of the vent, and said, "Do you know what a taster is, Jerry?"

"Uhm," Jerry clutched his gun, heart begging for escape from his chest. "N–"

"A taster, Jerry! It's–it's what kings had in the dark ages, the guy that ate the the King's food to make sure it wasn't poisoned. You know why I'm telling you this, Jerry?"

Rick snapped open the panel and stood, tugging Jerry by the elbow so he stood near it.

"Nnngh, um," Jerry swallowed, "Because… you have a newfound interest in history?"

Rick grinned, his eyes crazed, and Jerry's heart fell like a stone at the sight. "You're gonna be my taster, Jerry!"

What followed was a blur of sensation. First, the pressure of Rick's large hands on his back, pushing. Then the stomach-drop feeling of falling. And the pain of landing, shooting up his legs and back—the shock of pain led him to release his grip on the gun and when it hit the ground, a burst of plasma shot out from the barrel, hitting a federation official in the foot.

Jerry blinked several times.

Oh, wow. There were dozens of federation officials surrounding him, all with their heavy guns (semi-automatic, his mind reminded him) trained on his person.

Rick was betrayed.

Rick knew he was betrayed.

Rick knew he was betrayed and he made Jerry take the fall.

Jerry swallowed. "Rick," he choked, "You jerk."

Afterwards, Jerry would swear he heard the sound of Rick's laughter somewhere above him.

...

Jerry, strapped to a metallic table, could not appreciate the normalcy of a garbled voice through the overhead speakers: "Lunch break, Ted?"

Ted, also known as Ted the Torturer, looked up from where he'd been sawing Jerry's toe off. "Oh, shit yeah, it's enchilada day!"

Jerry almost whimpered, but he didn't want to draw attention to himself.

Ted quickly sliced off the remaining flesh before tossing the toe into a bucket with the rest. "Only four more to go!" he said to Jerry, chittering.

Jerry tried to keep from puking again. So far, he'd vomited three times and almost choked the last time because Ted had forgotten to turn Jerry's head to the side. When Ted did realize, he simply emitted a gleeful little, "Whoops!" and adjusted Jerry's positioning. Rock bottom, Jerry decided, was the feeling of your own stomach sludge dripping from the corner of his mouth and pooling thickly where his cheek met the table.

"Alright, buddy," Ted stood from where he sat on a low stool by Jerry's feet. "I've gotta go eat. But don't you worry 'bout a thing, I'll be back soon to get rid of those pesky little digits!" He tapped Jerry's foot with his exoskeletal claw of a hand and Jerry winced at the hot rush of pain. Still, that wasn't as bad as the constant, expanding ache, the invasive burning in his feet…

"Pwwww," he murmured, "Pwwww, wwmm wmmw mwmo wmamiwm!'

"Yeah, yeah," chittered Ted, "Listen, buddy, I only have so much sympathy for someone who spends their time with Rick Sanchez, all right?" He tapped the side of his head and there was a sound like plastic-on-plastic. "Shoulda thought about your decision to mingle with a wanted criminal, huh?"

"PPPWWWww," cried Jerry. He was trying to communicate his own fiery hatred for Rick as well, but it wasn't working, not at all.

Ted left the room, chuckling to himself. All that remained were two guards and Jerry, strapped to a table that had tipped at some point during his torture so that now his feet were elevated higher than his head. He could feel cooling blood running from the wounds on his feet up his leg and to his knees.

Jerry had not expected the torture. He wasn't sure what he expected, really, but… This was the Galactic Federation—the government. Surely they'd understand he was just a pawn in Rick's game.

And they did. They just didn't care.

"Jerry Smith," one had reported to his boss, "Rick's son-in-law."

The apparent commander, Jerry remembered, had seemed irritated at this. "Where is the other one?"

"What other one?"

The commander waved his limb, mandibles shifting restlessly. "You know, the young one who's always wearing a yellow shirt?"

"Oh," the rookie Gromflomite peered at Jerry. "According to the security cams, Rick only brought this guy."

The commander hummed. "The young one was likely too valuable to bring on an excursion into the Federation, especially knowing as much as he does about Sanchez's life."

The rookie nodded cluelessly.

The commander emitted a long-suffering sigh and turned to face a window overlooking black, empty space. "Well," he said, folding his arms at the small of his back, "I suppose we should get as much as we can out of him anyways."

…

He was completely toeless by the time Rick burst through the floor.

Jerry was floating in a semi-conscious state, vision blurred and sounds distant. He didn't register his rescue. He just listened to the piercing wails of the alarm as he watched the flashing red emergency lights dance over the reflective surfaces of the torture chamber.

"–erry," there was a strong hand on each shoulder and Jerry was suddenly aware that he was right side up again. "Jerry, wake the fuck up! God fuckin' dammit, stupid little fuckin'dumbass fuckin' traitor Sangulon…"

The torture chamber was trashed, covered in the black blood of Gromflomites (including Ted, who lay slumped in the corner with a thin tongue sticking out of his now jawless head). There was a gaping hole in the floor of the room, around the edges of which was more black blood, bodies spread all over the room below.

Jerry blinked, trying to focus his vision on the person in front of him… or was it persons? They were possibly twins, each with a shock of pale hair and old, grayish skin… Oh, wait, they were merging. Nope, they were apart again. Annnnd merging…

"Jerry!"

Jerry's head whipped to the side and a curious tingling sensation bloomed on the still-exposed section of his face. Oh, he realized, I just got slapped. His head whipped to the other side all of a sudden. More sharp tingles. Oh, he thought, I just got slapped again.

"Oh, for Christ's—if you don't get up, I'm leaving you here."

Jerry groaned, awareness slowly but surely seeping back into his heavy head.

"Jerry!"

There was something familiar to that grating, almost painfully harsh, voice. "R-Rick?"

"No, Margaret, it's me God. Yes, it's fuckin' Rick! Get the fuck up, Jerry, we gotta go!"

"Rick…" Jerry rasped, "My toes…"

Rick dragged a hand down his face. "I'll get your toes, Jerry, but if you could just–just help me out here? Before we die? I-I-I-I-I-I don't wanna die because of a Jerry, okay. God, can you imagine what the other Rick's would say if I died 'cause of a Jerry?"

Ah, a familiar roiling in his gut, a limp energy circulating in his fists… Jerry wanted to punch Rick in the face. What did they call this feeling?

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Rick yanked at Jerry, tossing him over his slender shoulders, "Oh, God, you're like a fuckin sand bag," he wheezed, "Or like a giant… fuckin' turd… Yeah, that's more like it…"

Jerry was definitely re-entering the world of the living. He knew this because all of a sudden, his feet hurt like a motherfucker. "Riiiiiick," he moaned, fists nudging at Rick's lower back. "My tooooeees."

"Yes, goddamnit, Jerry," Rick stuffed Jerry into the passenger seat of his spacecar and stalked to the torture table, scooping up a yellow bucket that was on the floor before returning to the car, "I've got your fuckin' toe bucket, okay? Here– here, take it!" He thrust the bucket of ice into Jerry's limp arms. Jerry's head lolled downwards, eyes flickering over the white frozen cubes and the watery blood smeared all over the plastic sides.

"I should," he slurred, staring at his severed big toe, "I should cut my toenails more often…"

Rick slammed the passenger door, shouting expletives and pulling at his hair for a moment before proceeding to walk around the side of the car. The piercing alarm seemed to intensify when Rick opened the driver's side door only to once again recede under the sound of the door slamming.

"Oh, fuck yeah!" Rick said, wriggling in his chair, "Still got mah seat settings, biiiiiiitch!"

Rick leaned over to pull a seat belt over Jerry's chest. Jerry blinked slowly as this happened, watching the silent scene in what remained of the torture chamber. A group of Gromflomites had burst through the door as Rick was getting in the car and they were now shooting at the vehicle, but Rick didn't look concerned so neither was Jerry. He just let himself slump further into his seat, body pulsating as it leaked its life force all over the floor mats.

"Aw, Jesus Christ, Jerry," Rick sat back up and jerked a lever beside the ship's steering wheel, "You're getting your gross blood over everything."

"Sorry…" he muttered.

Rick ignored him, instead flipping a few switches before returning to the stick shift, performing some sort of movement that allowed them to hover a moment before they crashed straight through the wall into open space.

Jerry watched rapt as the Gromflomite soldiers left in the room were sucked into the vacuum of space, weapons scattering.

"Fuck yeaaaaaah, bitches!" Rick grinned and spun the ship around before they jetted off into the blackness. "That's what happens when you fuck with Rick fuckin' Sanchez, beeeeeeeiiiitch! Lick, lick, lick my baaaaallls!"

Jerry's head fell against the glass. "No, thanks," he murmured, "Too tired."

…

Jerry could not understand Rick's shameless joy. There he was, in the driver's seat, saying stuff like shit yeaaah, and oh, yeah, that's my fuckin' soooong, boi as the radio continued playing Earth stuff. Meanwhile, Jerry was gulping down all the available liquid from the glove compartment (it tasted like acetone, which wasn't ideal, but...), hoping drunkenness would act as a buffer between him and the absolute agony of re-applying his toes to his own body. And he had thought trying to figure out which toes went where was a nightmare…

By now, Jerry was nearly done fixing himself up. He had just dumped some alcohol onto the one remaining stub that was supposed to be a toe, hissing all the while. Then, he used one hand to hold his right big toe in place while his other aimed a stem cell gun at the clean split between the flesh. Grimacing, he pulled the trigger.

"Ahhh, fffffrick!" The burning sensation began from within his bone marrow, expanding as the surrounding tissue tried to accommodate the sudden invasion of a new extracellular matrix. "Fuck, fuck, fuckfuckfuck." It would take a few minutes before the pain would fade into a regular, pulsing ache.

"Keep it down, will ya?" said Rick, sipping from his flask. "I'm tryna–tryna listen to Young Thug, aight? Givenchy mah toes and mah hoes and mah bros.. foh sho, fo sho…" Rick bobbed his head, cranking his seat back. He looked over at Jerry, smiling, only to be met with a glare. "Oh, what, the toe thing? Too soon, huh?"

Jerry just kept glaring.

"God, you and Morty, huh?" Rick shook his head, taking another swig. "Always taking things personally." He frowned and then nodded at Jerry's feet. "By the way, I think you fucked up a couple toes there. Pretty sure the pinky toe goes on the end."

Jerry looked down at his feet. Sure enough, the pinky toe was in the place of the middle toe. "ARE YOU KIDDING ME?"

…

Rick landed sloppily, as he always did, in the parking lot of the Flim-Flameria. "Nice–uuURp–nice hustle today, Jerry, you really–you really took one for the team," Rick burped.

Jerry ignored Rick, shoving the space car door open and gingerly placing both bare feet on the ground. His only remaining pair of pants was now stained with blood at the cuffs. And where did his shoes go in all this commotion? He gave a wary glance at the clothing store next to the strip club. Guess he'd have to do some shopping with his meager paycheck. He wondered if his shoe sizing would be any different now that some of his toes had been rearranged…

"Hey, Jerry, what're you just–you just gonna ignore me?"

Jerry pushed himself into a standing position and took a baby step forward. Yep, that hurt, but it'd do. He limped away from the car, shoving the door shut behind him.

Rick rolled down the window. "Fine, be that way, you big baby."

Jerry flung him the bird, hobbling his way back to the Flim Flameria while making sure to avoid the glow worms jutting out of the pavement.

He didn't look back when he heard Rick fly away.

.

* * *

A/N:

Up next—not sure, sorry.

Sorry about this chapter, I didn't have much time to edit it as I've been very busy with family stuff all week. Also, I haven't had the chance to write the next chapter yet so I likely won't publish it for a couple weeks.


End file.
